Monday, November 14, 2016

I cried on elections night. Not out of defeat for a
candidate. The tears were for disbelief for having elected a man to office whose
campaign promoted everything I reject, the same things our society as a whole
rejects: bigotry, misogyny, xenophobia. It was disbelief and disappointment in
seeing the man who, for months, undermined so much of the values we hold dear
win.

It was not fear of the enforcement of his promised policies.
It was sadness for all of us who allowed a message of hate to gain acceptance.

The logical part of me rejected the outcome of the votes.
The promises to fix what is wrong coming from a man who does much of what is
wrong (doesn’t pay taxes, hires undocumented immigrants below minimum wage) is
the equivalent of hiring an addiction counselor who is deep in heroin.

Regardless, I don’t fear the policies as I fear the impact
his message and how it was assimilated would have on those who seemed targeted
by it, whether that was his intent or not.

For that I cried.

I knew the message disseminated during the presidential
campaign by the now president elect had spoken to the low feelings of many.
Those emotions that were dormant and by no means new nor created by this man, had
been locked away and restricted as our society moved away from racism and
injustice. His message gave the okay, the green light to unleash what we have
fought to avoid for years. His message opened the gate and allowed them to fly
free.I cried that night.

It is that feeling you get when something terrible has happened.

That feeling cannot be explained. It is one of those “must
be there” to understand it. “Must feel it” to know it.

And I know it. I have felt it.

As an immigrant, I have never felt discriminated, but I am
well acquainted with a lesser feeling, that of “classism”. I grew up in a
developing Country where social and economic status equals importance. A person
is treated – or was treated back when I grew up – according to the rank their
family had in society. I live now in a county of the United States that,
because of its prominent classism, reminds me of my birthland. I am used to
being talked over in a meeting, being interrupted in the middle of my sentence.
My ideas, as brilliant as they may be, require much more emphasis than my
counterparts. At times, I require a high-profile person by my side to be taken
seriously. I deal with it. It comes with the territory.I don’t belong to the right social class to
expect differently.

But I’ve never dealt with open prejudice until now.

In the land of the free, a land of immigrants, I’ve been
told in recent months to “speak English. This is America” as I carry on a
private conversation.

I cried the night of the elections for the all of that, and
then I cried again a day later.

It was not when I saw the anticipated acts of harassment
done on to minorities. Muslim women being removed of their hijab, cars driving
through black neighborhoods screaming “cotton picker” and the “N” word. Immigrants
waking up to signs on their windshield telling them deportation was their
future. Kids told in school by classmates to go back to their country. Not even
when I saw the graffiti proclaiming white supremacy. I didn’t cry then.

It was when, after posting a question on social media, an
unrelated comment told me “maybe u
should think about relocating” That message illustrated in black and white what
I felt. It made it real. It drove it home.

Under the dark
cloud that this nasty campaign left behind, and the message it conveyed, some
people will be glad to let me know that my rights are not the same as anybody
else’s. I am different. I am a minority. If I don’t agree, I should leave. My
right to express my opinion has been taken away.

But I have that
right. I have earned it and I claim it, and legally no one can take it away
from me. Nonetheless, some, as the person in the comment will make every effort
to remind those of us
who dare disagree that we are different, different to what they are.Before this
election, I was glad my children were intelligent, good hearted, good human
beings, and I was confident our society would appreciate them for those
attributes. I am now glad my kids are Caucasian, they speak with no accent. I
am happy for that now.

Tuesday, October 18, 2016

I am not bothered by what public figures say no matter how
opposed to my ideology they might be. I welcome the opportunity to explore new
ideas and entertain diverse thoughts. Your voice, your opinions, or
that of the celebrities don’t bother me. It is that “shadow” that festers as a
byproduct of it resembling a volatile gas awaiting a crack in the window to
leak in that pushes me away.

When it finds that escape, when that shadow is out and negative
feelings are running wild, it becomes difficult to express an opinion that can
in any way be deemed controversial or simply against the parameters already set
by your beliefs. Parameters that are now voiced out by that “shadow”.

The shadow is like an evil child. You must keep it guarded,
surveyed, and never out of your sight, because once you open the gate there is
no stopping it, it will run loose causing a chaos.

You’ll marvel at it. Is this really part of you? Are these
your thoughts? You might be proud,
or it might scare you, and there is no way to stop it. You let it loose.

And it’s okay. You might lose some friends. Some whom you know
you have insulted, but you won’t apologize because there is no apology needed.
Your shadow spoke its mind, and you will become acquainted even if briefly with
others who have also let their evil child loose and who will appreciate you.

They will empower you. The more vehement and even vicious
they are, the more validated you’ll feel. If anyone dares challenge you, you
will unleash more of your child wrath. That will teach them.

How dare anyone, anyway?

You have the right to post anything even if offensive
against those who don’t think like you. You’ll call them names and disagree. After
all, your shadow is speaking the truth, and you know you are right. They are
all wrong and as such deserving of the insults.

You might make a concession and privately tell someone “It’s
not about you” when you notice the evil child has gone overboard in the insulting
phase.

But you won’t take a step back now. You’ve gone too far to take it back.

There will be people like me who will hesitate to post a
comment after seeing your come backs to those who don’t agree with you. I’ll
stay away from those who call women C—t, and I will stay away from your
posts if offensive. And I will hope that this is just a phase. That the shadow you let loose
will go back inside not be seen until the next election realizing perhaps that
you did not convince anyone. In the meantime, I’ll scroll down and ignore you, and
if it gets that bad, I’ll unfollow you until you can put that evil child back in
the dark. Only then I might start enjoying you again and remember why we were friends in the first place.

Friday, October 14, 2016

Three years ago I drove my daughter to ICU after a sudden
diagnosis of Diabetes Type 1. It was more than a scary experience to watch my
child surrounded by medical doctors. It was a moment that changed me and the
way I looked at life and people. At the very least, it provided the objectivity
I had been avoiding.I removed the rose
colored glasses I worn all my life.

My brother and sister in law rushed to meet me in the
parking lot around midnight after they found out that my daughter had been
admitted.A bottle of wine in the back
seat purchased on their way there gave me a moment of relaxation. Minutes later
I would sneak them in the ICU to see her.

I woke up curled up in a chair to the voice of a nurse:
“Mrs. Loor, take this pillow. You’ll sleep better”.

My phone rang in the early hours of that first morning in
the hospital. “How you take your coffee?” My new friend asked. “What else do
you need? I’m on my way” Friendship is not measured by the time we’ve known
each other but by the times we are there for each other. I learned that that
day.

My coworkers took turns to meet me in the lobby. A cup of
coffee, a card, a note. Their hugs lifted me up in those uncertain hours.

I waited for the rest of my family to come during the five
days my child was in the hospital. They never did. Some of my close friends
replied with a quick text never to follow up again. The man I dated didn’t find
time to visit me. I’d choose never to see him after that.

Meanwhile, I watched my daughter endure her new routine. Her
smile warmed up the room as she learned to use the needles that will accompany
her for a long time if not the rest of her life. She had no complaints, not
even after learning that her dad wouldn’t shorten his vacation to be by her
side. Her resilience, her faith, was a ray of light in the darkness I
felt.

I learned a lot from that kid that week. I learned to stand
on my own and count my own blessings. I learned to appreciate what is given to
me and I learned to accept and to let go.

I am always learning from the kid I’m supposed to teach. That’s how lucky I am.

Friday, September 02, 2016

My mother, was an illegal alien. An experienced accountant,
she left her country for reasons that were not money related, even if money was
not necessarily abundant.

Not every immigrant is destitute, uneducated, low life. Most
are not and she certainly wasn’t. But one thing she was:

An illegal alien.

She embraced her status bravely. Working two shifts in factories
under difficult conditions where she never made minimum wage. I remember her
fingers red with blisters caused by the “long play” records she removed hot
from the press. Her tired smile sent in pictures to her family in Colombia
walking to a train station in freezing temperatures. I remember the time she
worked through the fever of bronchitis unable to take a “sick day” and without
seeking medical care because her status didn’t come with health benefits, and
seeking them was a red flag for deportation.

I am the daughter of an illegal alien.

An honest, hardworking illegal female immigrant.

Other members of the family followed. All illegal. All
worked in similar conditions. All hard working honest people. Under their illegal
status, their federal pay check deductions were left behind unable to file IRS
return.

Their challenges are not new. Their slow acceptance into
this country was not smooth, and that’s not new either. Other groups suffered
as much.

I have a hard time thinking that any of them robbed a
citizen of a job they would have taken under similar circumstances for less
than minimum wage and no benefits. I have as hard of a time believing they
received anything they didn’t work hard to get.

They didn’t run back to their country when their status
changed. They stayed, invested in the economy and raised a family.

Their lives were not easy. They lived in fear, and they
worked hard. And they were grateful. When you have nothing, you are grateful
for everything.

It’s difficult to sit back and watch how they are depicted
as criminals and to hear about the glamorous easy life they supposedly had as
illegal immigrants. None of it is true,
at least not to this immigrant family.

I’ve never been illegal, but I am of an illegal family. It
is from them that I learned that deep commitment to work ethics and integrity that
now I pass on to my children.

Every fitness magazine will tell you that daily exercise is
the best medicine.

Weight loss, low blood pressure, reduced risk of
cardiovascular disease are but the tip of the myriad of benefits. Research shows that running reduces anxiety
and stress and calms your emotions.

Being out there, just you and the road, is therapeutic. It’s being in sync with oneself,
it’s peaceful, it’s prayer from within, and at times, it’s ecstasy. I don’t
mean to imply that these moments of delight make every run easy, but I can attest
to the benefits to the mind and soul.

Running has been my companion in my doggiest days. It was my
aid when I fought an illness. It gave me the strength-- more mental than physical--
to go on. During those days, when
getting up and lacing the sneakers was difficult, running provided the calm I
needed. It has not made life better, nor adversities less, but it certainly has
made difficulties more tolerable. If nothing else, running has provided a pause before reacting, and has given me
time to think before making a decision.

Let’s face it, if you had a fight with your partner, you
won’t love them more after a run, but you’ll be less likely to kill him or her!

There are many
other benefits. Just ask Enrique Murillo, addiction counselor. Thirty-four years ago Enrique went for his first run
two months after having had his last drink. Alcoholics Anonymous had helped him
stop, but he needed a resource to keep him from relapsing. He had to deal with the newly found sense of
reality he faced without alcohol, and running was the healthy habit he needed. “It
provided the axis for my recovery,” he says.

It doesn’t just
happen, though. Murillo stresses that you
must embrace it, form the commitment, develop the engagement. Make it a habit that becomes part of
yourself. Jesse Bailey, one of the clients Enrique counseled in the RECAP Center
in Middletown where he works, agrees. Four years clean, he credits running with
the mental strength needed during his struggle. “It was the only time I felt
good that first year.”

Enrique is documenting his findings. He hopes to prove that
of the dozen addicts he has counseled, those who embraced running or walking
have remained sober longer. His goal is to demonstrate that an exercise program
is an essential part of the recovery phase.

Those who are looking
to make a change in their life physically and mentally, start by going for a
walk, a jog, sign up for a 5K, and feel the calm and energy flow.
Self-prescribe with a dosage of the best medicine there is.

On weekends, I like to start my day early so I can enjoy as
many hours as possible. Oddly, weekends and vacations, I wake up the earliest.

I love to run. It’s my time to decompress. Sometimes it is
my silent prayer. When it’s only me and the road, I find peace, and many times
I think of solutions to issues on my mind. But as much as running offers me, most
of my runs are only to maintain my fitness level or my mileage. Few are
remarkable.

On Sunday I drove to Bethel, New York. I started my run
early to avoid the impending daytime heat; the skies were pale grey and the
town slept.

The roads were quiet. Animals fed in their farm. A distant
rooster greeted the morning sun. Cornfields lined some of the roads of the
Vintage Run Half Marathon course I was following.

Ducks, chased by a dog, landed on a pond across the street.

The trees that four months ago were bare were robust now with
green leaves that would change to a plenitude of colors by the time of the Vintage
Run on October 1st. Their perennial change is a reminder of the
cycle of life we cannot escape.

The lack of rain exposed rocks in the streams that normally
run full.

I passed two silos standing tall on the green acres of a
farm on Old Taylor Road.Hay bales lay
piled alongside the barn. I caught my breath after the long hill and wondered
who lived in this remote place bursting with tranquility.

My pace was slow. The heat was rising and my lack of long
distance training showed. I timed my walk breaks with the hills, snapping
pictures of the gorgeous views that surrounded me. I breathed in this peaceful
time alone, so needed in today’s hectic life. I realized I had not turned on my iPod, but I was
glad for the silence to be so in tune with nature.

The town was awakening. Kids in their pajamas ran around in
their yards, people walked their dogs, cars emerged heading up to the Woodstock
monument. A woman asked how many miles I was running and offered water. “I have
only a half mile to go,” I replied. “I can’t hardly make it to the end of my
driveway,” she said with a smile. “Neither could I years ago. It’s a matter of
giving it a try” I assured her.

I made my final turn and tackled the last hill. I was tired,
but felt surprisingly good. I got to my car and waited for the sweat to stop
pouring before getting in. I smiled. I was happy.

Sunday was a good run, a peaceful run, a remarkable run. A
time away from the steel and concrete of the city. It was about being out there
for the simple reason that I could be.

Friday, June 10, 2016

We had not seen each other in like forever. We both had
gotten married within months of each other and since then our communication via
letters had become scarce. Well, not mine. I kept writing, but in the rare occasions
when I received one of hers, it was brief with the endless promise to write
more later, and in every note (they were too brief to be called letters), she
reminded me of how immensely happy she was with the wonderful man God had
gifted her.

On our first vacation I asked my husband to go with me to
visit my friend. Our trip would be short, but enough to catch up.

In spite of the limited days we had, my friend never found
time for “us girls” alone. Her hand always resting on her husband’s lap, or
sharing a kiss with him, sometimes passionately. In our very few moments alone,
perhaps when he went to the bathroom, she reiterated her immense happiness.

I left convinced of her self-proclaimed bliss. Perhaps a
little too close, perhaps a little too much PDA, but glad she had found her
soul mate and her paradise as she called it. I wonder about me. I was happy,
but I never talked about it. Was I not appreciating the cards I was dealt?

Her marriage ended a year later with a list of infidelities
by her husband and rocky times she had never disclosed.

Mine lasted 25 years.

Show it. Don’t post it.

It’s a quote I have shared a few times when and after the
unrelenting effort some friends put in social media talking about their
unbelievable happiness.

Unbelievable. That’s the key word.

When a relationship forces all others in the back burner,
when an email from a friend is replied with no more than two lines, when calls
and messages are ignored, it’s not a perfect relationship.

You are trapped in an illusion and in the exhausting job of
convincing the world of what you are not convinced.

There are no perfect mates. Happiness is made of
imperfections, of trial and error moments. It’s made of enough time away to
miss one another and sufficient time together to feel confident, but not
suffocated.

The (im)perfect mate is an addition and enhancement to your
life, not a replacement of it.

What I write – Why I write
I write about life
About running,
About my impressions.
I’d like to call my writing
Impressionism.

All I write will be shaded
By my ideology
And I can not pretend
To be phonily neutral
For no one can be

I write because it is free.
Because it’s not censored
And
Because it is I

I write about my experience
and my observations of others
What I have felt
And what I could have felt

I write about my feelings of today,
The people in my life now and
The ones in my life yesterday
However many years ago.
I can write the feelings
of twenty years ago
With the same intensity
that I would have back then.

Bear with me
For what is life but
a long string of events
All affecting one another